


Daedelus

by samalander



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Friendship, Friendship/Love, IKEA, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Revelations, Sam Feels, Soldiers, Steve Feels, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Up all night to get Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve nods thoughtfully, his eyes far away for a moment. "I think-- they used to say the Romans did that. Fought with their lovers at their sides. They said it was better for morale. I don't-- I mean, I didn't sleep with most of my guys. But Bucky-- Bucky was like a little bit of home under my skin, you know?"</p><p>"Yeah," Sam says, a sadness settling onto his shoulders. "I know what you mean."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daedelus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sansets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansets/gifts).



> For sansets, who took me to the sneak preview and then listened to me have feelings. (She had some feelings, too, but I'm way more important.)
> 
> With thanks to [Arch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/arch) and [enigma731](http://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731) for betas, and to [Rubynye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rubynye) for her cheeriness and encouragement.

When he's nine, walking home from school, Sam Wilson sees a patch of vividly purple flowers under a neighbor's tree. They aren't any kind of flower he knows, any kind of flower that his mother buys and arranges in careful crystal vases. These are small, clinging in bunches to the roots of the little tree, and the pollen inside them is a violent shade of orange. Sam doesn't even think, doesn't stop to consider what he's doing—the winter has been long and cold, and these are the first flowers Sam's seen in a long, long while. He kneels on the chilled ground, the mud soaking into the knees of his school uniform, and plucks every last flower.

His mother looks at him funny when he presents the little bouquet, the flowers half crushed from his grip, but she smiles and fills a tea cup with water from the tap before gently placing the flowers in it and setting them in the middle of the kitchen table.

* * *

Steve is shocked at Sam's address, when Natasha pulls it off of Google. He's shocked, first of all, that it's on Google. And second of all, Sam lives in Maryland.

It shouldn't be surprising—a lot of people who work in the District don't live there. But to live in Maryland, to live on the border with North East and come down to the tidal basin to run, well, it seems bizarre. But something about it, the idea that Sam could go to Rock Creek Park or Sligo but chooses to travel a few miles every morning to take in the monuments, makes Steve's heart swell.

"How come you run in DC?" Steve asks, as they drive to Ft. Meade, while Natasha stares out the window in the back.

"I'm up anyway," Sam shrugs, not meeting Steve's eyes. "Might as well see the sights."

Steve makes a soft noise in his throat, watching the way Sam tenses, the way his shoulders square-- a defensive posture, the kind of thing Steve does, too. The way he wards off pain.

"Riley?" Steve asks, and Sam winces.

"I-- I mean, it's been years? I should-- I'm mostly over it. Mostly. But sometimes, you know." Sam sighs, pulling up to a stoplight somewhere in suburban Maryland. "Sometimes I close my eyes and I'm watching him fall."

A chill runs down the length of Steve's spine, the kind that reminds him of a bitterly cold German mountain, a rushing train.

"Yeah," he says, looking away from Sam, unable to deal with the reflected pain he sees there. "I get that."

* * *

Age fourteen, Sam Wilson is angry and horny and has an acne-pocked face that the girls make fun of him for. He's surprised at how much their words hurt, even when his mother smoothes down his hair and tells him stories, the same stories he loved as a boy. They ring empty now, the details sparse and the premises thin. She talks most often about his Great Uncle Gabe, and the things he did in World War Two. How he was a black man in an elite squadron, a unit tasked with taking down secret evil scientists. Sam rolls his eyes now, but he remembers sitting rapt as his mother told the same stories, his mouth open and his eyes wide, trying to imagine the gray man in the picture on the mantle as being a soldier, bent by the weight of his gun.

Sam knows, from research of his own, that his Great Uncle Gabe _was_ part of an elite squadron. What Sam's mother always omits, always leaves out, was that he was part of Captain America's squadron.

Sam loves Captain America; he loved the myth as a boy, and having seen photos, now, of the little weakling that Steve Rogers was, Sam has hope for himself, has some distant belief that maybe, someday, he'll stop being spotty and hated, and start being a real hero, like Captain America. And maybe his mother will sit in church and tell the other ladies stories about him, pictures of her boy Sam in her wallet, passed from hand to hand, collecting fingerprints between the crumpled edges.

But after dark, when his mother leaves and there's nothing to do but think and try to sleep, Sam finds himself oddly aroused by the thought of Steve Rogers. It isn't Captain America who does it for him, a bastion of patriotism and might, but the man himself, the man who tried to enlist six times, the man who was too small to be of any good but still fought.

* * *

They're at a little diner in Virginia, a few hours after saying goodbye to Nick and Natasha.

"I come here for the chilidogs," Sam says, flagging down a surly-looking waitress. "And the decor."

The place is dark, Steve decides, the kind of place he and Bucky might have gone back in New York. The walls are covered with placemats that kids have drawn on, beer posters, and chalkboards featuring menu items that seem oddly out of place for a dive with the word "Inn" in its name.

Sam orders them chilidogs, a whole raft of them, and the waitress appraises Steve for a minute before she cocks her head.

"You're Captain America," she says, like she's announcing the time or the weather. "Aren't you?"

Steve nods, a little embarrassed to be singled out.

"You're still gonna have to pay," she says, eying him critically. "Nazis or no Nazis."

She doesn't wait for a response, just turns on her heel and moves swiftly toward the kitchen. Steve feels a lightness in his chest, a kind of comfort in just being A Guy.

Sam manages to wait until the woman disappears into the kitchen to begin laughing helplessly.

"Shut up," Steve grumps, but he doesn't.

* * *

It's never a question for Sam _if_ he is gay. He has a lot of friends in high school, a lot of girls who want to date him, now that his awkward phase is passed. But he's never interested, opting instead to play football, to wrestle, to run, and to stare at other boys in the locker room.

He knows what it is -- he's seen enough of _My So-Called Life_ to understand what it is to like boys. He just isn't sure how he can be the man he is, how he can be an athlete, a student, a JROTC cadet and still be a fairy. He tries not to sweat it, tries not to dwell on what he wants to do with his dick, and stay focused on what he wants to do with his life. But still, something burns under his skin, a dim kind of _want_ , a demon that wears blond hair and blue eyes and a farm-boy smile.

* * *

"I wasn't up for a pilot spot," Sam says, as they cross the Key Bridge into Georgetown, dodging tourists and yuppies as they work on a circle of the city, desperately seeking Bucky. "Usually enlisted men don't get to fly planes but-- but I wasn't gonna do college without the Air Force, and I wasn't gonna get an officership without a degree, so I was stuck."

Steve makes a soft noise in his throat, his eyes scanning the street. He does that, almost ritually, looking for a face he's not going to find between the Sunglass Hut and Godiva.

"I was a gunner," Sam goes on. "Riley, he was an officer. He was a pilot. Flew the chopper I shot outta. We had some scrapes, me and him. When I say-- when I say wing man, I mean it. Partner. Through and through."

He doesn't look over at Steve, somehow blessed with all the green lights M street has in its pocket today. "We got shot down, once. Over the ocean, thank whatever. But me and Riley survived. Lost another, Yates. But Riley and I found some-- a bit of the bird. In the water. And we just-- we survived. Five hours in the water, edged up to hypothermia."

Sam laughs, a light finally turning red in front of him. He glances at Steve who isn't scanning the crowd, instead opting to watch Sam as he talks. "And then they started Operation Skyborne, and Riley talked the brass into-- said I was the best gunner he'd ever met. Said he wasn't going up without me. And so they gave me wings."

"You loved him," Steve says softly, and Sam shrugs.

"How do you mean?"

Steve is quiet for a long moment, and Sam suddenly feels a hot stab of regret, like maybe telling his story to Captain America was a mistake.

"I mean--" Steve swallows, his throat bobbing under his granite-lined jaw. "I mean, the way I love Bucky. Like, more than brothers. Something-- something sacred."

"Sacred?" Sam asks, unable to keep the grin from his voice. "I don't know about sacred. We did things-- we would have been kicked out if they'd known, cause it was still Don't Ask. But-- yeah, I guess. We were-- together."

Steve nods thoughtfully, his eyes far away for a moment. "I think-- they used to say the Romans did that. Fought with their lovers at their sides. They said it was better for morale. I don't-- I mean, I didn't sleep with most of my guys. But Bucky-- Bucky was like a little bit of home under my skin, you know?"

"Yeah," Sam says, a sadness settling onto his shoulders. "I know what you mean."

* * *

There are two choices: Air Force or nothing.

Sam chooses Air Force, figuring he'll give his years and then come back for his degree, when he's done.

There are a lot of terrible decisions made in the summer of 2001, but Sam never expects enlisting to be one of them.

* * *

The beers are cold and the bar is dark, almost homey in a way.

"So," Sam says, taking a swallow. "Captain America is gay."

Steve rolls his eyes. "No," he says. "Captain America is asexual. Steve Rogers, on the other hand? Steve Rogers is bisexual as hell."

"Oh," Sam laughs. "That's, um. Did they have bisexuals in the thirties?"

"Well," Steve smiles. "They had me, so I guess so."

They drink quietly for a moment, listening to the joyful sounds of men playing pool, jostling and laughing like the world is actually a good place.

"We didn't have a word for it," Steve says softly. "Or, if we did, I didn't know it. I got that one from the internet. It's-- it's nice to have a word for it. To know there are others. Besides Bucky, I mean. We-- we always knew that boys were for the war, men were for now, and we'd settle down with women. But it's good, you know, to know that it doesn't have to be that way. If there are men out there I want to settle with."

Sam swallows his beer hastily, a flutter in his stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

"You were lucky," he says, when he has words again.

"Lucky?" Steve asks, signaling for another drink from the bartender.

"You had a chance at being normal," Sam says, suddenly interested in his hands. "I mean, I live now, and I get all the things that come with-- internet, cell phones, marriage rights. But you-- even before the serum, you could have found a woman, some woman. You could have married her and raised kids and been happy, without having to give up parts of yourself."

Steve doesn't say anything for a moment, his long fingers peeling the label of the bottle and laying it in long strips on the bar, something artistic that Sam doesn't understand.

"I would have been giving something up," Steve says softly, and Sam doesn't have the ability to say anything in return, so they drink and watch the Redskins lose on the TV.

* * *

He doesn't talk for a week after Riley goes down.

Every time he stops, every time he tries to focus on what happened, all he can see is his friend falling, the man tumbling through the sky, a hole in his parachute and no wings to catch him. Sam aches, every part of him. He wanted to chase him, wanted to do something, anything, to save his partner. But he had a set of plans in his pack, a bit of recon in his head, and chasing one man would mean the almost-certain death of a hundred people. So he flew on, the terror in Riley's eyes burned into his heart.

"You ever hear of Icarus?" the doctor asks, checking Sam's chart again.

Sam doesn't answer, just pulls his knees up to his chest and shivers.

"It's a myth. Greek," the doctor continues, his nose in the chart. "Boy's dad makes him wings out of wax, so they can escape a prison. And the kid flies too close to the sun, so his wings melt. He falls, you know? His wings fail and he lands in the sea. Dies, or drowns. Who knows."

Sam can only stare, his mouth open in shock. He doesn't know what he's more surprised by-- the callousness of the story, or the fact that a healer would tell it to him.

"I'm just saying," the doctor continues, glancing up and catching Sam's gaze. "Sometimes there's nothing you can do. Sometimes it kills you to keep going, but you don't have a choice."

Sam shakes his head, his eyes burning an angry red. The doctor hesitates for a moment before turning away to move on to the next bed.

"Hey," Sam calls, his voice raw, rough. "Fuck you."

The doctor ducks his head, but Sam catches the quirk of an upturned lip, and it haunts him almost as vividly as Riley's eyes.

* * *

"Bucky isn't in DC," Steve says, after the third week of looking.

"He could be in Maryland," Sam offers, adjusting the amount he's adding to his SmarTrip, standing at the machine in the Dupont Circle station. "These things are great, you know. Before SmarTrip, you had to buy a fare card every time. And they only gave change in quarters. And only five dollars of it."

"Right," Steve says, checking his watch. "But Bucky— I think he went back to Brooklyn."

"It was a pain in the ass," Sam says, tapping his wallet to the sensor to finish the transaction. "That's all I'm saying. And you had to keep your old cards, feed them into the machine one by one to consolidate them."

Steve blows out an exasperated breath. "You know, I remember the subway costing a nickel. But I'm trying to talk about Bucky."

Sam shrugs, looking Steve in the face for the first time during this conversation. "What's to talk about?" he asks, his face open and earnest. "Wherever you go, man."

"You're with me?" Steve asks, smiling slightly.

"As long as you need me."

* * *

The Air Force keeps Sam around for a few months after the incident with Riley, lets him heal up and even fly a few missions, before deciding to scrap Operation Skyborne. The world seems dimmer, somehow, down on the ground. Things seem darker without Riley, lonely without his best friend in his bed.

His last mission as a gunner earns Sam a piece of shrapnel in his side, the wound ugly and gushing as the empty cases fall from his gun onto the landscape below like rain.

The discharge is honorable, and the folks at Walter Reed are kind. Sam's mother brings him purple flowers in a little vase, and he watches them wither on his bedside table as the days tick by.

Dr. Meyers is a tall woman with dark, curly hair. Sam thinks she must have been beautiful before she became a doctor, before she decided to spend the rest of her life fretting over assholes like him.

"PTSD is serious," she says, settling into a chair at his bedside. "The VA has some groups you can go to, for people like you."

"People like me," he says softly, not sure what else to say, accepting the pamphlets she's holding out. "People who come back?"

"Coming back is hard," she says, tucking a curl behind her ear. "And you're not alone. So don't shut yourself out."

Sam nods, his throat feeling raw. "You know the story of Icarus?" he asks, softly.

"Yes," she nods. "And I know the story of Goldilocks, and the story of Noah and the Ark. You want to hear them?"

He smiles, weakly. "No."

"I've read your chart," Dr. Meyers says. "I know what Dr. Englander said, because he was trying to scare you into talking. And it worked. But you want to know a secret? Dr. Englander is a cock. So go to a meeting, talk to a friend. And don't let him live in your head."

"Let him," Sam says, the words awkward in his mouth. "You think I'm making a choice here?"

"You are," she shrugs. "You're always making choices."

Sam's palms are sweaty, suddenly, the pamphlets gripped in his hands wilting with the moisture. "I want to help. I wanna-- I want to be useful."

"Then be useful," she says, smiling at him. "I'm sure a man who can fly can find a way to be useful."

"Can't fly," he says. "Just a-- just as land bound as you."

Dr. Meyers shakes her head. "Maybe you don't have wings," she says. "But that doesn't mean you never flew."

* * *

New York seems smaller, Sam thinks. It used to seem endless, huge. But since the aliens came, since Steve and Natasha and the others fended off nasty space worms, the city seems to have shrunk. He's sure it's in his head, and he doesn't say anything to Steve.

The houses in Brooklyn have changed, Steve says, though he doesn't say how, and Sam doesn't ask. They visit all the places Steve can think of to visit-- a movie theatre that's now a Duane Reade, a school that looks like it was condemned thirty years ago, a little laundromat that Steve wells up at, muttering about couch cushions on the floor.

Sam can barely stand it, he reaches for Steve, intending to give him a hug, to offer solace.

Their lips meet with a spark, Sam's body going stiff at the feeling of Steve's tears on his cheeks, his hands in Sam's hair.

"What are--" he chokes, pulling back.

Steve doesn't say anything at first, just looks into Sam's eyes. Sam aches, he actually hurts at the look, wishing for all the world that he could fall into the embrace again.

"You're in love with Bucky," he says, instead of giving in.

"Loving a ghost doesn't do anyone any good," Steve says. "Especially a ghost who doesn't know he was ever alive."

Sam shakes his head, his throat tight. "No," he says. "I-- Look, I'm not saying no to you. I am not saying no to this. I'm saying no to right now. To your old stoop and you crying. If you want me--"

"I do."

"Okay," Sam says, trying to pretend that those words aren't rocking his world. "Then you'll want me when you're not-- compromised."

"What did you bring back with you?" Steve asks, touching Sam's cheek softly. "What did you leave over there?"

"I--" Sam closes his eyes, Steve's fingers impossibly soft for a man who fights so often. "I lost Riley in a ball of fire. You lost Bucky in an avalanche of snow. But they both fell, and we both kept flying. We're-- we're the living."

"And living people get to do living things," Steve offers. "I-- I'm lonely."

"And living people have to keep living," Sam counters. "And you gotta know that this-- you. You'd be more than loneliness for me. And you're already-- everything you do is a risk. You think I can just, I can just be with someone who lays there and takes it, lets someone with a metal arm muss up his face?"

Sam is aware, achingly, that they're in public, that this should be a private conversation, the kind of thing whispered in a dim hotel room after 1 AM.

"I'm sorry," Steve breathes, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I-- there are fairgrounds. Where the Stark Expo was. We should check there."

Sam nods and falls into step next to him.

The ride to the grounds, which appear to be an Ikea now, is awkward, the taxi jostling them against each other, both men trying to pretend like they don't want to touch, like they don't need some kind of human closeness to get them through the journey. 

"I guess he's not here," Sam says, looking around the parking lot as Steve pays the cabbie. "Unless you think he might be a threat to meatballs."

Steve turns, suddenly, and grabs Sam's shoulders, kissing him hurriedly. 

"Steve?" Sam asks, stepping out of the kiss, his hand flying to touch his lips. 

"I-- Okay," Steve sighs, running his hand through his hair with such an aw-shucks vulnerability that Sam almost doesn't care what he's going to say. Mostly he wants to kiss the stupid man. "When I was-- before the serum. When I was little. I was allergic to everything. And the thing I loved, more than anything else, I loved apple cake." 

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Is this a story that ends with my nickname being Apple Cake for the rest of my life?" 

"Shut up," Steve smiles. "I just-- sometimes, I want things I shouldn't have. And eating apple cake was always worth it, even if my mouth went numb. And I think-- I think being with you, it would be worth it. Even if I love Bucky. I can love you, too. And you're here, and it-- it doesn't mean I'll run off and be with him when we find him. If we find him." 

"And what about me?" Sam asks, a strange spike of anger in his chest. "Do I get a say?" 

Steve blinks at the vitriol in his voice. "Of course, Sam. I mean-- yes. But, I'm saying. If you want this, I want this." 

The thoughts rocket through Sam's head, too fast to catch hold of. "This is a terrible idea," he says after a long moment of gaping at Steve.

"Probably."

"We're both gonna get hurt."

"Most likely."  
   
Sam stares, judging the calm in Steve's voice, the set of his jaw and shoulders. "Okay," he says after another pause, his heart pounding. "Okay. I'm in."

"You're in?" Steve echoes, a stunning grin spreading across his face.

 "Yeah," Sam says, stepping towards Steve, crowding his personal space and landing a hand on his slim hips. "As long as you need me. I'm in."

* * *

Sam Wilson ties his shoes, cinching the laces and tucking them away in the pre-dawn gloom. He goes running most mornings, goes jogging in Rock Creek, stops sometimes to skip stones or pick flowers.

Today he feels restless, like there's a storm on the horizon. He feels it in his spine, something foreboding and big, something urging him south and west, towards the Mall.

The Mall is never empty, full of tourists and runners and early-morning interns on coffee-themed adventures. But today it's almost quiet, almost serene, as he takes a breath of air.

"Good morning, Mr. Jefferson," he smiles, nodding at the monument in the near distance. "Feels like a big day."

Mr. Jefferson doesn't answer, and Sam sets out, losing himself in the rhythm of his feet, the steady thump of his progress.

He feels the runner behind him before he sees the man, the same twinge of _something_ on the back of his neck.

"On your left," the runner says, and it's all Sam can do to keep going.


End file.
